Story In Entire Sentence:

Tough Englishman must keep himself alive by repeatedly shocking himself, all while finding the man who stole his heart. Just like Macbeth.

Homoeroticism:

Anyway, Jason Statham is a real hunk, more in the vein of Stallone than Van Damme, but the kinky gayness piles up. Not only do we see Statham’s chest (not since Kickboxer have I seen a chest so sweaty) for an endless amount of time, but also his ass and cock, and he’s constantly fighting men who are almost always shirtless. He even has a gay sidekick. There’s also some squirm-inducing moments, such as a Latin mobster who tells a tattooed stud to cut off his nipples, which he does with relish. Statham also sticks a shotgun up the ass of an Asian thug, and “tortures” him by shoving the “shotgun” barrel further into the glory hole. He’s Asian, so it’s like any other Thursday. Also, there is a recurring theme where the gay brothers stick together and come out for each other in full gun-toting support. In this case, they help Statham, and although a perfectly attractive Asian chick has the hots for Statham, he keeps telling her to get lost and leave him alone. She even gets hit by a car for not taking no for an answer. Finally, he gives her a hug (while on fire), which starts her on fire,  indicating that it wouldn’t work out, as Statham is literally flaming. And let’s not even get into the fact that Statham tells a gay couple to zap him as he puts on a dog collar, telling them to shock him more and more. Also, a redhead starts making passes at Statham’s girlfriend and sure enough, Statham isn’t even aroused. In other words, this is the queerest action flick since Showdown In Little Tokyo. Also, we get to see Statham hook jumper cables to his nipples and tongue.  In an 80s Action cardinal rule, a man talking to a shrink says how he’s gonna bang a bunch of whores, and then literally dies one second after uttering the word. Also, the whole premise is just one big metaphor about one man’s quest to keep himself aroused.  Notice he has sex with his girlfriend, but only so he can stay alive long enough for a violent embrace with other men. But he has a girlfriend, you say? Note that Corey Haim and a cop tell her to leave Statham because he’s no good for her. Also, it’s blatantly obvious that the title could easily describe a dildo.

Corpse Count:

36 is what I counted, give or take a few. Once again, the movie’s editing is often hard to focus on, but you do get a lot of beat downs,  a Godzilla parody, a guy kicking a severed head into the ocean, and much, much more.  In other words, the film is full of brutal orgasmic spurts of violence, and the smile on my face never left.

How Bad Is It Really?

Holy shit, it’s about fucking time we had a movie this politically incorrect, hateful, misogynist and racist. In other words, Crank 2 is like a shot of Wild Turkey after endless rounds of Cherry Pucker. One only wonders why in the fuck people can’t get this shit right when they make action flicks. I mean, this could easily been made by Cannon, and damn it if I didn’t smile when I saw a group of mohawked (gay) bikers ride in the town and help Jason Statham kick the shit out of greasy Mexicans. I should note that while this movie is an orgy of wonderful violence,  I think it’s only fair to point out that the plot makes no sense whatsoever,  and this marks the big screen comeback of Corey Haim, complete with a fucking mullet. But like Rambo, who gives a fuck? I mean, we get  to see a sex scene between Jason Statham and Amy Smart on a horse track, for chrissakes, complete with blurred out shots of Statham’s cock. And Smart’s pussy, if you’re interested in that sort of thing. Sure, it could be seen as a breach in 80s Action rules, but please understand that Statham is only fucking her so he can get the static electricity necessary to keep himself alive. If you need any proof as to the allusions to 80s Action, note that Statham rubs up against men first, possibly so he can get it up.

Stupid Political Message:

There isn’t anything, as the film really is a turkey shoot with no attempts at a plot or for that matter, a message. That being said, I did notice that all minorities in the film were either prostitutes,  gangsters, lackeys for mobsters, horny old perverts, or gay. So it’s like Newark, only less ridiculous. I think the closest thing to political content is when Statham starts a gunfight because his white, innocent girlfriend is stripping for minorities and drugged out degenerates like Corey Haim. Because let’s all remember 80s Action wasn’t only about the gayness, but also keeping innocent white women from having sex. Ever.

Lessons Learned:

I now realize why Stallone cast Statham in The Expendables alongside Jet Li, Dolph Lundgren, and Eric Roberts. Statham is the same vein of hero, not like those Nancy boys Vin Diesel and Will Smith. Also, I learned that anything is possible, as Corey Haim is making a big screen comeback. He may even have been paid. I guess Steve Guttenberg might show up next year on the big screen.

What the fuck? I mean, what the fuck?

According to numerous sources, it’s Dario Argento’s horror masterpiece. So why was I laughing? And checking my watch? Or spending half the time in the kitchen hunting for potato chips? From where I sit, it’s an allegory for the Allied liberation of Europe during World War II. Either that, or the entire thing takes place inside of a woman’s vagina. In terms of lighting imagery, there’s lots of red, equal amounts of blue, and a shit load of green. In order: danger, fear, and sexual longing. Though to no real end. It’s a dream and a nightmare and so fucking insane. Kinda. Or not at all. Moody like one of those old Black Sabbath videos. And there’s walking. A whole lot of walking. And I suspect the editor was drunk.

What’s the setting?

Taking place at a demented dance academy in Deutschland (with the usual tight-lipped headmaster), it has the most bizarre opening sequence of the period. Rain falls, water flows, lightning crashes, and the soundtrack — filled with the music of the rock group Goblin — pierces the eardrum. Fuck, was it loud. In case you didn’t catch the water, dramatic zooms highlight the, um, scary wetness of it all. It’s loud, obnoxious, unrelenting, and wholly without sense. Before long, a woman is attacked, another knocks furiously at her door, and both are dispatched with a rope and falling glass. Welcome!

Who’s Susy Banyon and why the fuck is she here?

She’s the American on board, attending the school because she alone must survive, discover the secrets, and set fire to the whole damn thing. She’s immediately taunted by swarthy figures armed with prisms, then sickened, and finally sent to bed without food. And forced to drink water. It’s telling that as the one cursed with mosquito bite breasts, she will expose the joint as a coven, because virginity is the best shield from evil. So yeah, the chick below was a whore.

Deaths to report?

One by one, the girls are murdered by unseen forces, though at no time is a sense of terror generated. It’s kinda funny when the one chick falls into a pit of razor wire, which may represent feminism’s frantic attack against patriarchy. Or a metaphor for life under Il Duce. Or what it feels like to watch 8 1/2. Whatever the case, here’s to a ballet school not so snooty that it can’t set death traps for well-paying pupils. But stay open for 100 years they do. Oh, and the blind dude is savagely attacked by his own seeing-eye dog. Fucking thing just up and rips out his throat. Tears off a few pieces of his neck for good measure. Why, exactly? Seems the old hound heard something strange in the air while standing in an open square with buildings made to look the U.S. Supreme Court. It’s like Peter Greenaway eating David Lynch’s stool.

So what is really going on? Witches, or the work of the Devil?

Oh, it’s a witch, alright, and one over a century old at that. Susy searches the school one eerie night and finds a hidden door. Behind it lies a creepy room with a curtain, which hides the head witch in charge from view. She’s leathery and decayed, and suffers from one helluva bad case of sleep apnea. She taunts Susy, scares up a mess of furniture and wind, and the whole things concludes with an inferno. The usual 98 minutes made to feel like 170.

Masterpiece?

Not scary, not entertaining, horribly acted, and containing the cinema’s worst musical score. Brilliant. The message boards on imdb said so.

First of all, what the fuck were you doing at a vampire movie for tweens? Tween girls no less?

While I have no interest in vampires and hadn’t even heard of the book until a few months ago, rumors were circulating that at some midnight screenings, teenage girls were dressing like whores, screaming like banshees, and circulating through the crowd biting necks. No, you ass, I did not check with Snopes.

Is all this fuss about Edward, the new young thing reducing America’s collective clitoris to a masticated slab of beef jerky?

Edward (Robert Pattinson) is part James Dean, part Nosferatu, all brooding hunk. His hair is tousled just right, his lipstick a deep, heart-fluttering red, and his skin a whiter shade of pale, that is, when it isn’t glistening like glitter in the sun. Some may be troubled by the intensity of his stares, or his tendency to treat scaling high trees as a first date, but I’ll be damned if he ain’t dreamy.

Is it true he never sleeps? And declares his love by saying that he wants to kill you?

It stands to reason that he’s the new object of lust for women across the country. He sneaks into your bedroom to watch you sleep, doesn’t want other men to even think about you, and is tortured by a deep guilt about wanting to drain you of your blood. He’s the Pacific Northwest’s answer to O.J. Simpson. But unlike the Juice, he’s got poetry in him, and risks it all to be with his true love. Cue swooning.

Isn’t Edward part of some kooky vampire family?

The Cullens, to be exact. The patriarch is Dr. Carlisle Cullen (Peter Facinelli), who could easily stand in for Christian Bale, but only if he were dipped in flour. His initial appearance produced the biggest laugh of the night, though it was difficult to top Edward’s “masochistic lion” speech. But top it he did. Through cheap, preposterous flashbacks, we learn that Carlisle sunk his teeth into Edward’s neck while he dying of the flu back in 1918. He’s been a 17-year-old high school junior ever since.

Will this be Kristen Stewart’s star-making turn?

She’s Bella Swan (!), a sad young woman who moves from Arizona to Washington state to be with her father. She’s thin, attractive, and mysterious, so of course no one wants to talk to her. She makes a few friends among the nerdy group, but it’s Edward who really catches her eye. Within a few scenes, she’s in love, and by the end, she’s ready to join the vampire ranks. Young girls everywhere can’t help but relate to her suicidal despair when faced with a life apart from her first real boyfriend. College? A job? A sense of self? When I could be lounging in the grass with the undead? What-ever.

So why in the fuck are they playing baseball during a thunderstorm?

Sure, the game sets up the final battle between the Cullens and James, the rival Dracula, but at no time is it explained why it has to be played in such inclement weather. The whole scene is cut like a bad music video, complete with the sort of soundtrack found playing in a teenager’s room as he looks out the window on a world that just doesn’t understand. And we just had to see the “bad” vampires (the “good” ones, like Edward, only kill animals) appear in slo-mo formation from the foggy woods, just like every other movie trying to establish a bad-ass attitude.

Learn anything new about the bloodsucking set?

The only way to kill a vampire, apparently, is to cut him to pieces and set the remains on fire. Also, they can, like, read your mind, unless you are destined to be among them. This sets up the need for Edward to actually speak to Bella, rather than continue to lurk and stare from afar. Oh yeah, and the staring thing is apparently what these people like doing more than anything else, especially in cars as they pass each other, or across crowded parking lots. And if you’re the especially gay-looking vampire, stare with wide-eyed blankness to blend in as much as possible. No one will ask questions if you’re translucent and never blink.

Gay vampires? I know this started with Anne Rice, but where have all the cowboys gone?

I’m not sure when American women started falling for androgynous albinos, but Twilight has finally revealed the truth. They haven’t been this obsessed since the Jonas Brothers. But yes, it’s the decline of the American Male, though it’s less the erudite manner and good grooming of Edward and his ilk that are driving the chicks wild than the romantic notion that the best boys interrupt an easy lay just to spend the evening in rapturous adoration. The ladies will take an odorous load to the face to get there, but they’d just as soon go without.

So wait, no ravenous youngsters pouncing like panthers?

The crowd was disappointingly small, and the only disruptions relegated to the row of Mexicans behind me who clicked and clattered away like they were front row at a cockfight. I told them to keep quiet, but my masculine tone was met by an even higher volume. But I was too involved with my pizza, milkshake, and mozzarella sticks to care (it’s called Cinebarre, and they serve a full menu with beer and wine). My mouth was too full, even, to complain that they never did dim the house lights.

It’s about time you resurrect the Shithouse. What’s this one about?

Lindsay Lohan, playing both Aubrey and Dakota, is kidnapped, gagged, tortured, and mutilated, losing a hand and leg in the process. She’s found, sent to a hospital, then followed by the FBI, and before long, she’s in a graveyard digging up herself.

Wait a minute, here. How’d we end up in a graveyard? Why is she two people?

Aubrey is a good girl. A sweet pea. And she has the trophies and ribbons to prove it. She loves the piano, has ambitions to be an author, and has so many friends she can’t have a moment’s peace. She also has a devoted boyfriend who wants to fuck her like nobody’s business. Only she won’t have it, as she has to be in love to get physical. So it’s practically Lohan’s memoir. Dakota, on the other hand, is Aubrey, only she isn’t, because she claims to be a two-bit stripper who’s been on her own ever since she found her mother stone dead with $11 tucked within her rigor mortis grip. Dakota swears like a sailor, fucks on command, and stabs people in the neck, but I’ll be damned if she shows her tits while spilling her sweat during a pole dance. She’s no whore, this one.

Back up, dude. Aren’t two Lindsays better than one?

As much as I wanted this to be The Double Life of Veronique, I couldn’t imagine Krzysztof Kieslowski resorting to owl hallucinations, homicidal piano teachers, and creepy lairs dressed up with legs hanging from the ceiling. I kept thinking that Aubrey was making this shit up for a novel, or that the film was her novel, or something rote and uninspiring like a dream, but instead, the film went off the rails completely by having the two girls be twins separated at birth, with a dad who sold one of them to a crack whore a few rooms down. Or something. I think they explained it while I was fixing popcorn.

Yeah, but wasn’t there a lot of symbolism? You know, about dichotomies and the nature of the self?

In spots, yes, but on the whole, the movie kept pounding home the notion that the color blue meant something. In all, there were blue rings, blue shirts, blue jerseys, blue gloves, blue gags, blue flowers, and even blue instruments of torture. Was blue the innocent half of Aubrey? I started to think so, that is until the blue metaphor stuck around even after she was locked away somewhere. The color suddenly switched to red when Dakota first came on the scene (she wore a red shirt when she found her dead mom in a flashback), but everyone around her kept wearing blue articles of clothing. Sure, that one weird guy on the bus came to Dakota in a dream and said, “Two halves to everything,” while flashing a tattoo about love and hate, peace and war. And wasn’t Aubrey buried in a blue coffin, even though she was alive at the end? With stories like this, why lament a writer’s strike?

Still, isn’t the stigmata a reasonable explanation?

As Dakota found it on Wikipedia, we have to accept it at face value. In a short clip found therein, we hear about “stigmatic twins,” which feel pain at exactly the same time, and even suffer from similar wounds, despite being thousands of miles apart. So when Aubrey was kidnapped by the serial killer and her finger cut off, Dakota suddenly lost her own finger while preparing to hit the strip club stage. Bleeding, she fell to the ground, only to be dismissed as a heroin overdosing ho by a fellow stripper. Convinced as never before (though I think this was a flashback), Dakota accuses Aubrey’s father — though technically her own — of hatching this scheme to ensure a healthy baby. Why not keep both? Have you ever known a well-adjusted set of twins? Besides Jenna and Barbara.

Okay, so Lohan’s no actress. Does she at least show that famous rack?

Not as a stripper, not as a dead body, and not even as an evil twin who fucks the good girl’s boyfriend while posing as Aubrey. The sex scene is pretty good as these things go, though we only see her from the back. And it’s played for laughs, too, as Aubrey’s mom, not knowing it’s actually Dakota, is forced to listen to the moans and groans of passion as she scrubs the sink downstairs. Her tits are nearly exposed in another scene, this one alluding to the discovery of the horse’s head in The Godfather. With a full zoom on Lohan’s tight-as-shit skimpy top, she frantically shoves away the bloody covers to reveal two bloody stumps for legs. It’s a dream sequence for no other reason than to further aggravate everyone who hadn’t yet thrown the DVD into traffic. Lohan is a junkie whore who won’t likely see the next presidential election, but there’s no escaping her criminally underused breasts. If only there was a way to see them sliced, detached, and lifted from the rest of her body without seeming sick and perverted.

Any memorable dialogue? Howlers we’ll remember?

As melodramatic as the performances were, there was precious little to rub the funny bone. Expository dialogue often defines a movie like this, and as such, curtails the overwrought juices. About the best there was featured Dakota before a mirror, offering the following monologue: “I am Aubrey Fleming. My name is Aubrey Fleming. I enjoy sunsets, long walks on the beach, and playing the piano. I have never been inside a strip club or a crack house, and I have never sold my body to hairy old men with B.O. because I am perfect.” Sing it, sister.

That’s it?

Fine, that gay dude on the bus did say, “People get cut. That’s life.” Who knew they’d steal my mother’s soothing words after my stint at Pee Wee football?

I know Dakota had a nub for most of the film, but what the shit was that with Robocop’s hand?

She had it attached to her stump during rehab, but it suddenly became flesh-colored and life-like. And yes, she does cause a man to flinch during a handshake. Tee-hee.

Okay, so besides the blood dripping down stripper poles, Lohan’s Ferengi teeth, and square-jawed psychobabble, what on earth was this thing trying to say?

Oh, you mean the identity of the serial killer? Remember him? Turns out, it’s the piano teacher we see in Aubrey’s opening scene. You know, the one where she tells him that she’s through with the instrument and will not be available for the big competition. So without any additional information or clear motive, we are forced to conclude that this snub led a professional musician to flip his lid, collect legs, and slice open young women with a surgeon’s precision? Dakota gets revenge, though, as she cuts off his hand (we know it’s his, because there’s that oversized blue ring on one of the fingers), sets it in a bucket of ice, and follows with a glass blade to the carotid artery. And then a sprint to the cemetery for a quick dig, only to pass out with her long-lost sister as a stream quietly trickles by.

Is life worth living?

No.

Holy shit! The Marine? In these times?

Not even close. In what must be one of the most egregious cases of false advertising in American history, John Bonito’s film spends all of two minutes with an actual Marine (pro wrestler John Cena as “John Triton”) before he is discharged for disobeying a direct order while on a rescue mission in Iraq. He is then working as a security guard, where he is quickly fired for throwing a man out a window, before finally settling in with his hot wife, who wants to drive to the mountains and get away from it all. And so they do, where they meet up with a crazy band of diamond thieves, who take Triton’s wife hostage, blow up a good 25,000 acres of South Carolina swampland, and all end up good and dead. Jewelry thieves? Kidnapping plots? Where are the swarthy terrorists reduced to tongue-clicking insanity, and noble military men saving white Christians from certain death? And what’s with a Marine having a wife, anyway? Shouldn’t he have his red, white, and blue cock deep inside a fellow recruit right about now?

So tell me about this John Cena….Typical wrestler?

Jesus Christ on a barbecue spit, this fucker is built! Semper fabulous. His arms are tree trunks, his neck so big no shirt will ever contain him, and his legs could press several dozen elephants. He’s an impenetrable slab of beef; so goddamn muscular and stacked and masculine that he owed it to us to strip down and flirt with his regiment. And as expected, his acting was atrocious in every conceivable way, which might explain his virtual silence for 90% of the movie. I’m thinking he attended the “When in doubt, grimace” school of emoting. To add to the trouble, Vince McMahon held down the fort as executive producer.

Okay, I get that Cena is a marble wonder, but how tough is the sumbitch?

In the film’s 82 minutes, he is stabbed, shot, kicked, punched, burned, slammed with bats, pummeled with steel bars, thrown through doors, and, in one scene, survives with nary a scratch after his car flies off a cliff and explodes, while he jumps to safety below – that is, if “safety” is to be interpreted as a fifty-foot fall onto jagged rocks. All Marine, candy-ass.

Surely there were allusions to 80s Action?

And how. The corpse count was a healthy 18, death and muscles were so sacred as to be holier than Christ’s crotch, one-liners flew like chickenshit Commies from a fair fight, and chicks were reduced to lips, hips, and broken flesh-heaps dumped roadside. Oh, and Robert Patrick of T2 is Rome, the bad guy. At one point, with the Marine in hot pursuit, a thief cries out, “He’s like the Terminator, this guy!” Patrick looks up at the rearview mirror and all but winks for us. Even better, one of Rome’s henchmen — the most muscular of the lot — is named Bennett. No chain-mail, but oiled to perfection.

What’s with all the fucking fire, chief?

Hell, I haven’t seen this many explosions since The Atomic Bomb Movie. At least three cars were reduced to Hiroshima-like clouds of gas and flame; an entire marina was launched into the heavens; a gas station was hastily converted into a blackened crater; a second marina was decimated by a megaton blast; and, in that final holocaust, Triton, after only a few lazy strides, managed to leap through the air a good fifty feet before diving into the water to rescue his drowning wife. She lives after he pounds on her frail chest with fists that could penetrate steel.

Admittedly, this was more about macho brooding, but any good dialogue to report?

After being told that his getaway car would be a less conspicuous minivan, Morgan cries, “Man, I’m a criminal, not a soccer mom!” Later, he offers, apropos of nothing, “I hate cops! And rock candy.” He also says, after being asked where they were, “I don’t know, but it smells liked baked ass.” And finally, after numerous deaths, millions in damage, and untold havoc wreaked on an innocent landscape, Triton tells his wife, “We should have gone to the beach.” Roll credits.

Odd bits and pieces?

With all the bottles on display — broken and otherwise — it was clear that Miller Genuine Draft was a proud sponsor. And I’m still uncertain: was it supposed to be funny when Rome, while angrily shouting demands to his fence and knee-deep in swamp mud, receives — and takes — a phone call from his cable company confirming the purchase of the premium package? And Jesus, did every non-military handgun murder have to take place off-screen? It’s okay to watch Arab terrorists plugged like pin cushions, but a hillbilly trucker, he’s taboo?

Stereotypes reinforced?

Hot chicks love diamonds. I mean really love diamonds. And they’ll kick, slap, and kill anyone who stands in the way of a fine piece of jewelry. Apparently, black men do not drive minivans. Ever. Cars, in fact, just might be their kryptonite. And while the black man was also the most homophobic, this had more to do with being fucked up the ass at summer camp by a dude named “Johnny Whiplash” than any irrational bigotry. And yes, every single employee of the chop-shop was black. Fine, two were Mexican.

Anything else to let you know it was a WWE production?

Gorgeous bimbo with balloon-like tits? Check. White Zombie on the soundtrack while bodies burned and cars raced down the highway? Yes, sir. Firmly held shot of a hottie with a gun tucked in her ass crack? Uh-huh. A masterfully choreographed fight in a meth lab with more grunts and groans than a Bay Area bath house? Done and done.

Did the world really need another Uwe Boll experience?

It did, if only to remind us that no one better translates the vision of video games to the silver screen. This time, Rayne (Kristanna Loken), a “dhamphir” (part human, part vampire) must find the Talisman of the Eye so that vampires are not allowed the rule the world.

Says who?

Why, the creepy mystic (Geraldine Chaplin), who speaks in hushed tones and metaphors, all while lurking around dark corners with a crooked finger and an evil eye. After letting slip the old chestnut, “I see a journey….”, she peppers young Rayne with many questions; curious that she is even alive, as most of the dhamphir race die at birth or are butchered by fearful peasants.

Wait a minute…..what’s Rayne’s story? Why is she speaking to this soothsayer broad?

As the film opens — on a shot of the biggest cross I’ve ever seen, thank you very much — Rayne is a prisoner of the Sherban carnival, forced to do tricks for the locals and demonstrate how her flesh burns whenever touched by water. The carnival barker tries to rape her as she sleeps in her cage, so she bites the shit out of his throat, and then escapes so she can meet her destiny in Ms. Chaplin.

Was this the first sign of trouble?

Not really. The first ten minutes — easily among the most incomprehensible stretches of celluloid ever produced — feature a chicken beheading, a sheep’s throat-slashing, no less than two sword fights, a crying fit, random shots of people on horseback, and Ben Kingsley sitting ramrod straight while in some sort of dark, torch-laden lair.

Sir Ben Kingsley? The Oscar winner?

The very one. Looking like the love child of Quentin Crisp and Geddy Lee with a dash of gypsy for good measure, Kingsley’s face appears immobile for most of the film, uttering dialogue so beneath him that one wonders why he consented to speak at all. Sir Ben is Kagan, the most powerful vampire in all the world, though he still requires the Talisman of the Eye to secure control for the rest of time. Kagan once raped and killed Rayne’s mother, so he must also guard against her certain revenge.

You mentioned the dialogue…Examples?

“Kagan is building an army of thralls, and we’re on our way to a carnival.” — Sebastian

“Bring me my thralls.” — Kagan

“It seems all this chatter has veered me from the task at hand.” — Katarin

Not so bad…surely there’s more?

Guinevere Turner’s script is one long-winded slog of references to assorted legends, tales, myths, artifacts, and stories; the phrase “I will bring peace to these lands” is actually used in earnest; three out of five exchanges involve the explanation of the Talisman of the Eye, which is combined with a heart and a rib to complete the trifecta of world domination; and after Rayne is told of the ceremony to remove the Eye from her head, thereby tarnishing her soul, she pauses, stares ahead, and actually gulps.

So does Rayne find the monastery where the Eye is located?

She does, and soon after being invited in by a few monks, she sneaks off to steal it. She then encounters some dude who appears to be constructed entirely of mashed potatoes, and who also happens to possess the world’s largest mallet. They fight for a bit, that is until Rayne obliterates the poor sap’s head in a burst of blood splatter. She then puts a cross in the wall, a secret door opens, and she navigates a booby trapped room to reach the eye. The monks are pissed, but are quickly distracted by an attack involving Kagan’s thralls. A bloodbath ensues, as arrows hit chests, swords slice throats, and an occasional stunt double falls from a lofty perch.

Any thoughts while this battle raged before you?

First, the swords appear to be encased in aluminum foil, sort of like the props you’d find on the set of a high school production of Hamlet. Second, the choreography is stunningly bad. No one’s heart appears to be in it, least of all Michael Madsen, who mumbles, scratches, and seems embarrassed by all the weight he’s gained while not working. Most of all, though, this might be the bloodiest movie ever made that didn’t contain a single moment of excitement. For all the (lack of) passion on display, the bit players and has-beens might as well have been playing Old Maid.

What’s this “Leonid’s Lair” I keep hearing so much about?

For some reason that never made any sense to me (I think they were trying to retrieve Rayne), Madsen and his band of Brimstone misfits (including Michelle Rodriguez and Matthew Davis) come upon a castle in the woods. It belongs to Leonid, played by Meat Loaf (excuse me, Meat Loaf Aday) with a bad wig, even worse accent, and rags stretched to the very limit of their endurance. Leonid is surrounded by topless chicks on a giant mattress, but soon he is engaged in a struggle with the Brimstone Three. We think a sword fight is about to ensue, but Madsen breaks a window, letting in the dreaded sunlight, and Leonid bursts into flame before turning into a pile of ash. Better yet, in the dungeon of the lair, there are chicks making out, blood being slurped from gaping necks, and tremendous slabs of flesh being consumed by dirty savages. Who knows what the hell it all means.

Is there at least a blasted sex scene?

While jailed, Rayne is seduced by Sebastian and though she wants to bite his neck, he convinces her to make out first, which then turns into a wild humping session. She rides him like a stallion and, though she tears off her vest to reveal a nice rack, the actual penetration is obscured by a conveniently placed table. All in all, pretty uninspiring. Only Uwe Boll could make sex with a fucking vampire less interesting than the closing credits.

So does Kagan succeed? Does he acquire the Eye?

Of course not, though the final scene is a massacre of Cold Harbor-esque proportions. Decapitations, sword thrusts, arrow piercings, and literally fountains of blood dominate the grand battle. Left standing, of course, are Rayne and Kagan, who fight with little gusto, and even less believability. Kagan is finally killed, and though all non-vampires appeared poor, desperate, ill-housed, and ill-clothed, the world is saved from true despair.

Perhaps a roll call of dishonorable mentions?

Again, Michael Madsen was half-asleep and bloated, so he takes the top slot. Loken’s a looker, though her acting wouldn’t pass the smell test on a porn shoot. And surely the editor deserves several hundred lashes himself, as the film is sloppy, confusing, and incoherent during the best scenes. Ah, and to each and every person responsible for the flashback sequences — thank you for channeling the very worst of David Lynch, adding slo-mo and sweeping camera shots, and wrapping it all up with a charming strobe effect. No, Uwe, it’s fine, I already had a headache.

Finally, what are the five scariest words in the English language?

“Special Appearance by Billy Zane.”

Released: 1993

Tagline: No Judge. No Jury. No Appeals. No deals.

Entire Story in Fewer Words than are in this sentence:

Bronson loses umpteenth love interest, resumes human slaughter.

Homoeroticism:

Like the other installments of the Death Wish series, virtually none. In fact, we see more exposed female breasts in the first ten minutes than we do in any of the other chapters combined. Although Bronson wines and dines his fiancée (Lesley-Anne Down) and even makes out with her on several occasions, we don’t actually see him get laid. However, he does spend a good thirty minutes of screen-time driving around in his Jeep Grand Cherokee leering at bad guys. Also, one of the principal villains is a cross-dresser with a bizarre and irrelevant skin condition. I suppose that’s got to count for something.

Corpse Count:

A paltry ten, but they are almost all novelty deaths accompanied by one-liners. We witness people getting shot, electrocuted, hot-ironed, shrink-wrapped, disfigured, blown up, run over, and poisoned. Yes, poisoned! Bronson varies his killing techniques enough to actually dispatch somebody with a cyanide-laced cannoli.

How bad is it really?

Fucking terrible— the worst of the entire series. Granted, the plot tries to be a few shades deeper than a mere tale of Bronsonian retribution, but it nevertheless ends up falling flat on its exhausted, overused ass. Nothing about this movie makes any sense whatsoever and much like its younger siblings (omit Death Wish 3), Death Wish 5 is truly a daunting task to sit through. The dismal corpse count and contrived acting are enough to put even the most dedicated fan to sleep. What pained me the most, however, was watching a seventy-three year old Bronson hobble through the scenes as a sad mold of his former self. White-haired and approaching death, he is unable to wield anything mightier than a puny, snub-nosed revolver.

Essentially, Bronson is set to marry Manhattan fashion designer, Olivia Regent, when her company is extorted by the mob. Oddly enough, the mob, as in Italian mafia, is headed by an Irishman named Tommy O’Shea. When Olivia agrees to testify against O’Shea she is beaten, mutilated, and later shot in the back. Unable to cooperate with the incompetent district attorney, Bronson once again carries out his own form of swift and predictable vengeance. Utterly fucking boring vengeance I might add. The most disheartening aspect of the film is that it was Bronson’s last.

Stupid Political Content:

What content? Sure, stupid chiefs had made the transition to the 90s, but Bronson’s return to apolitical vigilantism was a mammoth snoozer.

One-Liners:

This is where Death Wish 5 excels. Bronson delivers pre and/or post-mortem one-liners in almost every death sequence. After poisoning one of the mobsters in an Italian bakery, Bronson confronts his dying victim as if to help him and asks, “You got a problem, buddy?” Then he pushes the mobster’s face into a pile of half-eaten cannolis. Somehow, it takes several minutes of choking and slobbering for the man to expire, despite the fact that a good dose of cyanide typically kills somebody almost instantly.

The best pre-mortem one liner occurs when Bronson disarms and manhandles O’Shea at the end of the film. After forcing O’Shea to beg for his life, Bronson drags him over to an open pit of acid. Now before I get to the one-liner, why the fuck was there an open, unguarded pool of acid in a textile warehouse? I mean, not even so much as yellow tape was there to warn the migrant workers of possible danger. No Peligroso! signs. Nothing. Absolutely ludicrous. Anyhow, Bronson says, “It’s time for a bath,” before plunging O’Shea into the acid where he proceeds to writhe and moan for a longer duration than the T-1000 at the end of Terminator 2. I half expected him to grow two heads.

The best post-mortem one-liner occurs after Bronson uses a remote controlled soccer ball to blow up the cross-dressing, dandruff-laden hitman. Just after detonating the ball, Bronson says, “looks like I cleared up that dandruff problem,” or some such nonsense while he watches the hitman’s body smolder and turn to ash.

Novelty Death:

If it’s not the cannoli, it has to be when the mobsters kill the obese foreman of the textile warehouse. The death itself is nothing exciting (they simply hit him with a car), but it’s the way it happens that makes it memorable. The foreman is easily pushing 350 glorious American pounds and when the mobsters hit him head-on with what appears to be a small two-door Chrysler, the impact catapults tubby twenty feet into the air, smashing him through a restaurant window as horrified onlookers flee for their lives. That said, it wasn’t as absurd as the cannoli.

What you learned:

Charles Bronson, bless him, has made some truly awful films.

RAISE YOUR VOICE

Directed by Sean McNamara

Written by Mitch Rotter and Scott Schreiber

Starring:
- Hilary Duff as Terri Fletcher
- Oliver James as Jay Corgan
- David Keith as Simon Fletcher
- Dana Davis as Denise Gilmore

Are you telling me that you openly and willingly rented a Hilary Duff movie? I thought you wanted her dead?

I was all set to press the button for Ice Cube’s Are We There Yet? when I was suddenly overtaken by the desire to see something that might actually make me mad rather than simply bore me into unconsciousness. This crap managed both. And I still want her dead.

Is she one of those “simple girls with big dreams” that seem to dominate chick flicks these days?

She’s Terri, an untalented, narcissistic twit who wants to make it big in the world of music, but can’t decide whether she should attend a summer music school or submit to her brother’s incestuous desires. He follows her around with a video camera (shooting mostly her tits), standing far too close to someone who shares his genes. He wants her to become a star, so he secretly sends in a tape, along with an essay testifying to her greatness. The audience, however, is never given any evidence supporting his beliefs.

So what happens to him? A messy suicide after ejaculating all over her sleeping face?

Nothing so virtuous. Instead, he’s killed in a car accident after he and Hilary sneak away to a rock concert. The band’s name is 3 Days Grace, which means that they’re one of those hardcore bands that can rock the house, but not so much that they don’t love Jesus. He dies miserably and in tremendous pain, but she lives on, more determined than ever to make something of herself. Still, before she can make millions of dollars from suckers who long ago traded away their good taste for mindless, numbing escapism, she must have a crisis of confidence, which involves an argument with dad, a tearful confession, and a few prayers in a nearby church. Unfortunately for us, she decides to head to L.A. and sing her little heart out.

Is there a “kooky aunt” who really understands the poor girl?

Played by none other than Rebecca DeMornay, who we know is one of the “good guys” because she’s an artist who constructs ugly, incomprehensible sculptures that will never, ever sell. And she wears thigh-high leather boots.

Sounds hot. As a girl from Flagstaff, Arizona, she must find Los Angeles shocking and scary, right?

There are few scenes as reliably groan-inducing as the “Welcome to L.A.” montage, which always involve a grinding beat, as well as our heroine staring from the window of a cab (or bus) as she passes panhandlers, hookers, and porn shops. Hell, she even has her jacket stolen at the train station! But she has the crucifix her brother gave her, so she’ll remain defiantly pure and goodhearted.

The school itself — your typical arts college?

Let’s run through the cast of characters: the nerd who longs for a woman out of his league, the moody chick who harbors a secret brilliance, the bitter rival who just might steal the heroine’s man, the British import who falls for our heroine because she’s so damned plucky, and of course, the sassy hottie who flirts with all the teachers. As for the staff, there’s the bearded hippie who becomes the most valuable mentor, the authoritarian Russian dude who ends up a softy, and yes, the hard-ass headmaster who runs the school with an iron hand because, well, tough-love works best. The only thing missing was the retarded janitor that lives in the boiler room who accidentally imparts life lessons because behind his drooling, snot-smeared smile lays the wisdom of the ancients.

About that tape the dead brother sent in: does it play a role later on?

Nothing big, really, except that the hippie teacher plays it for Hilary when she gets down and seeing her brother brings forth the waterworks and she runs down the hall screaming like an infant. She even starts packing, although her boyfriend convinces her to take a walk along the Santa Monica pier so that they can hold hands, talk about bubblegum and rainbows, and fall in love. The only other thing I remember about the scene is my wife (a Southern California native) shouting, “When did Santa Monica pier looked like that? Where are the fucking bums? The molester carnie workers? The Mexican sisters with 30 kids in tow?” That’s my girl.

So does Hilary finally hit that high note?

Uh, sure, I guess, although her singing is so bad that I’m not sure any notes could be extracted from the strangling-a-cat shrillness. But her character seems to think she has (as well as her teacher), so she takes that self-delusion all the way to the big competition for the coveted scholarship.

I have to ask: is there a mime sighting?

Strangely enough, yes. And in a flight from reality more dramatic than the entire Star Wars series, he’s actually embraced by the crowd witnessing his obnoxious antics.

What about Duff’s first stab at open mike night?

Come on…….

Does she blow it big time and run from the joint in tears?

Yes, but…….

And did she see her dead brother in the lights right before she fled?

Of course, although…….

And does she catch her new boyfriend kissing his ex-flame, which prompts another tearful run down the hall?

Obviously. But what does that have to do with…….

I was just moving this shit along……You’ve taken too long as it is, haven’t you?

Okay, I’ll wrap it up. She walks along the beach in tears as a sad song plays, she wins back her man, she enters the competition with him, they compose a putrid ballad together, and the big day comes. Her dad arrives in a rage, she runs back to her room to fetch her brother’s necklace, he is there packing her bags, it looks like she won’t return for her big moment, but right before the announcement is made, she is there in the wings. She sings like a good girl, the crowd roars, and the once skeptical teachers nod at her obvious genius. Some guy who looks like Angela Davis is playing piano, the dad is in tears, and Duff looks to the sky knowing that her brother brought this all about.

Is this the most you’ve ever written about a film so fucking awful?

It sure as shithouse feels like it.

Everyone in this movie is a fucking retard. As am I, for what possible reason could there have been to make this stinking mess the third installment in my McDonald’s DVD Tour of Terror?  There isn’t a single thing in the movie that isn’t some part of a teenage girl’s fantasy, including running a fashion magazine, riding out the sunroof in a limo in New York City, putting on make-up, shopping for expensive clothes, and dating some beefy athlete. It’s Big with even less of a brain, and even less entertainment value. I hated everything about it, and I don’t even have Jennifer Garner to rave about, as until now I never realized how flat chested she really is. Hell, the young actress who played her as a 13-year-old had nicer jugs. Or least a rack requiring a bra.

This is the sort of film that begins in 1987, yet can’t even get the pop icons right. Michael Jackson’s Thriller was, to my knowledge, not still popular at that time, as this movie suggests, and I also believe Rick Springfield, the Go-Gos, and “Burning Down the House” had run out of steam at least three years before. With the credibility instantly shot, it never recovered, as if it ever stood a fucking chance to begin with. So, Garner is Jenna, an awkward teenager who longs to be older, prettier, and smarter, and happens to find some “Wishing Dust” to make it all possible. As her birthday party becomes a disaster (the popular group — “The Six Chicks” — have come only to play a nasty trick on Jenna), she longs to be 30-years-old, and is granted her wish by the magic of cinema, or at least a shopworn script. Waking up in the future (but still with the brain and maturity of a 13-year-old, remember), she forces the audience to endure all the expected scenes: shock as she passes a mirror for the first time, more shock as she sees the boyfriend she never knew she had (and naked no less), even more shock at her breasts (probably more for the fact that in 17 years they actually shrunk), and an unsustainable level of shock at all the clothes and shoes she now owns. Her friend (one of the “Six Chicks” from the past) shows up to take her to work, which is as assistant editor of a fashion/pop culture magazine called Poise. Not like you needed (or wanted) to know any of this shit.

For what seems like hours, we get more standard scenes: Jenna being shocked yet again by her new world, and people reacting to her strange new attitude. Still, despite the adjustment, it is surprisingly easy for a teenager to take over a New York magazine, which is commentary in itself (unintended, of course). We then get a scene where Jenna, still a kid at heart and mind, resurrects a sagging magazine party by asking the DJ to put on “Thriller,” where she proceeds to dance like a fool and bring the house down [Ed Note: ARGH!!!!! KILL ME! FUCKING KILL ME NOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!] . Further complications ensue when she looks up old friend Matt (Mark Ruffalo), who is now engaged and a freelance photographer. Long story short: they fall in love, which means that Matt, now 30 himself, is falling in love with a girl of 13. Of course the body is an older, smaller breasted woman, but he doesn’t seem to notice that Jenna giggles a lot, loves candy, says “grodie” and “gag me,” and walks around like a dipshit on crack. I mean, most women stop advancing intellectually around age 13, so perhaps it’s not too hard to fathom. But the movie never addresses the fact that a “woman” like Jenna can actually maneuver in a big city without anyone at least questioning her competence. The message? It’s better and cooler and specialer to be a bunch of grown-up bodies with child-like minds. Kinda like George W. Bush and his cabinet.

So we have Jenna coming to the rescue of the failing magazine (using, like, cool ideas to emphasize real women, not those phony anorexic-types), only to be betrayed by her friend, which leads to Jenna making that cab ride to Matt’s wedding so that she can try to win him back. Matt carries on, but gives her what remains of a dollhouse he made for her as a kid, which also happens to have some of that “Wishing Dust” left inside. Jenna becomes a teenager again, kisses Matt in the closet instead of, like, grossing out and ending the friendship, and then we flash forward 17 years to Matt and Jenna’s wedding, where they live happily ever after. Did I really watch this crap? And did I just write a review for it? I guess, but I felt obligated to justify that $1.08 Visa charge. And next week looks good already: I’m eyeing Johnson Family Vacation.

A return to the Shithouse? Can you describe the experience?

7 minutes in — bored; 11 minutes in — still bored; 26 minutes in — bored out of my fucking mind; 29 minutes in through 55 minutes in — went to 7-11 for a coffee; 87 minutes in — nude, unconscious, and covered in boils.

And why Elektra? Don’t you hate comic books?

With the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns, dear reader, but how could I resist Jennifer Garner as a scrotum-kicking assassin? Still, I’m not sure even the basement-dwelling nerds would embrace this one, at least if they’re concerned with plot, character, action, or coherence. Which they rarely are, of course.

An assassin? Sounds dangerous — even sexy.

Neither, I’m afraid, although one victim exclaims, “They say Elektra whispers in your ear before she kills you,” which is a little sexy. But Garner insists on a humorless pout the entire time, which only calls attention to her bizarre lips, which contain more collagen than an entire army of Cher and Melanie Griffith clones.

Why was Elektra stabbing ninjas in the rain? And in slow motion no less?

For the same reason that the ninjas disappear in a cloud of green smoke after having their necks broken or pierced with knives — because it makes absolutely no fucking sense whatsoever. She moves to a home by a lake to collect her thoughts, meets a widower and his daughter, quickly learns that she’s been assigned to kill them, changes her mind, and is soon engulfed by several thousand Asians in their pajamas. If we were meant to understand, it wouldn’t be a comic book.

What’s this “Council of the Hand” I keep hearing so much about?

As far as I can tell, the group consists of at least two dozen Asians with tattoos who meet in a great hall and speak in hushed tones about “the treasure.” That, and they’re shape shifting, murderous thugs who want Elektra dead. Who doesn’t?

Wait! Wasn’t that a hot Asian chick making out with Elektra?

No, just transferring evil through her devilishly red lips. In other words, put your cocks away, young geeks.

Dude, what’s with all of Elektra’s nightmares?

Elektra is haunted by a past no audience member is meant to understand, except to learn that all of her memories concerning her father revolve around boot camp-style swimming lessons. Oh, and that demon from the Dio album covers apparently murdered her mother.

When did Terence Stamp stop resembling General Zod and start looking like Warren Harding?

Around the time of My Boss’s Daughter I believe, although it only became obvious here. At least he kept his ass cheeks under wraps, thank fuck.
http://ruthlessreviews.com/pics5/elektra4.jpg

So does she fall for the widower, or butcher him as planned?

They share a kiss, which inspires her to whisper, “I’m not a person to get involved with.” I’m tempted to say that was the worst line of all, but her arch-enemy actually says “Brave girl; you taught her well” when the widower’s daughter appears out of nowhere with arms and legs flailing. Sorry, the 13-year-old does not get naked.

Anything else you can leave me with, like sweat-filled anal following a pulse-pounding gun battle?

There are some cheesy CGI beasts — snakes, spiders, wolves, and birds. There’s also a massive black guy who brushes buckshot off his chest like lint. I also liked the scene where Elektra turns one knob on the stove and within seconds, blows up an entire 10,000 square foot house. Oh, and there was that late night exercise montage, which had far less erotic appeal than any random ten seconds of Rocky III. And I’m still trying to figure out why the film cut sharply from Elektra obsessively arranging fruit to her jumping in a lake. And no, the bitch never lightened up.

Lessons learned?

Asian broads with long fingernails are either whores, opium addicts, or kung fu warriors who love killing children. Never trust anyone who maintains a 5 o’clock shadow for weeks at a time. In terms of delivery and range, Jennifer Garner is the new Charles Bronson. And never, ever eat a Filet o’ Fish before 11:30 in the morning.